


Spillage Clean-Up on Aisle Nine: Beans

by Gang_Aft_Agley



Series: Superheroes, Scooby Style [7]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blatant Abuse of Pop Culture, Gen, Get Together, I can't write porn, M/M, No actual porn, Phil should have told Clint a loooong time ago, Swearing, Trip Lives, a lot of swearing, because I said so, he kind of deserves it though, implied porn, post death, so much swearing, someone gets punched in the face, talking like grown-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gang_Aft_Agley/pseuds/Gang_Aft_Agley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy knows a big secret.  Buffy has a big mouth.</p>
<p>Honestly, was there any other way for this to go down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Odes and Sonnets to the Barton Posterior

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this awhile back, and since then, canon has SIGNIFICANTLY diverged from what I had planned. Therefore, in addition to taking place in an AU where Buffy and vampires come out to play regularly, my Buffyverse exists in a weird mid-season 3 AOS limbo where Civil War emphatically did not happen, the Accords were dealt with by talking like grown-ups and not trusting Thunderbolt Ross further than the non-superpowered team members can throw him, Bobbi and Hunter are still on the team, Rosalind was not a thing (sorry, Constance Zimmer!), and sadly, Grant Ward (or rather the thing walking around wearing his skin) is not dead ... yet. My sandbox, my rules.
> 
> Completely un-beta'd, all mistakes mine!

When Phil’s office phone rang and he flipped the switch to transfer the call to the video screen on his wall, he was _expecting_ to hear from Talbot about more ATCU activity; he was _hoping_ to hear from Melinda, Bobbi, or Hunter about progress on the “Grant Ward Must Die a Slow, Agonizing Death…AGAIN” front.

What he neither expected nor hoped for was to have Director-Emeritus Fury’s face fill the screen, looking as grim and concerned as he’d ever seen him.

“Cheese?”

Phil slumped back in his ergonomically-designed desk chair, already massaging his temples in anticipation of a major headache; his new robot hand might not yet be able to tie a tie to his own exacting standards, but it was first-rate at this.

“What exploded?” The corner of Fury’s mouth twitched slightly, as if he wanted to smile, but the situation had already absorbed all of his available supply of good humor. Well, that was a bad sign.

“No pleasantries, no ‘Nice to hear from you, Director’?”

“You opened with ‘Cheese’, and you look like someone forced you to eat a kitten: clearly something has gone horribly wrong. No need to beat around the bush. Let’s have it.”

“There is a … a _situation_. With Barton. He knows.”

There was dead silence for several seconds; no need to specify precisely _what_ it was that Barton now knew. Both men had been bracing for this day for several years now, but Phil _had_ hoped to have a little more forewarning and preparation in place to counter the inevitable explosions and screaming and possible death or maiming.

“…how?”

“Long story short, Miss Summers ‘accidentally’ let that little tidbit ‘slip’ to everyone in Stark Tower; I think idle chit-chat during a movie marathon was involved, but Captain America was yelling at me and he was practically incoherent with rage, so I’m a bit fuzzy on the details."

“You know, Director, it’s amazing how audible those quotation marks are, without even the slightest change of voice or facial expression.”

“Sure you wanna be wise-cracking at this particular moment, Phil?  ‘Cause the way I see it, any second now the Playground is gonna be under a one-man assault by a grief-maddened superhero out for an explanation and a reckoning, and if you survive _that_ , THEN you’ll have to answer to the rest of the Avengers.”

“Point,” Phil admitted with a pained wince.

“Of course I have a point, I always have a point, and usually I have _several_ points. Personally, I blame your old friend, Rupert. This has his fingerprints all over it. _ALL OVER IT_. In his defense, I’m sure the man is as sick as I am of hearing your odes to the Barton posterior, but this is not the way to go about fixing things, goddammit.”

“… There were no odes.”

“Cheese, there were odes, there were dirty limericks, there were _motherfucking sonnets_. And not just to his ass, but also to his biceps, his eyes, his smile, his abs, that deep lunge thing he did to warm up before missions….”

Phillip Coulson never blushed, not exactly, but a close observer in this moment would notice that the tips of his ears had turned bright red.

“I get the message, Director.”

“Do you? Do you _really_ , Cheese? ‘Cause when Barton walks onto your base, it’s gonna be a now or never moment, so I hope you’re ready to weather the storm.”

Phil shrugged.

“Was there ever going to be a _good_ way for him to find out?”

“The optimal outcome of your literal goddamn _years_ of pining would have been for you _not_ to get fatally impaled by a spear-wielding megalomaniac, and then ask him out for coffee after he helped save the world. Barring that, yeah, if we didn’t want to have a superhero implosion, we should have let them all know as soon as you were stable, but….”

“But, I wasn’t _really_ stable until Puerto Rico, and you had no idea how the GH-325 would affect me in the long term.” He sighed deeply. “And the longer the deception went on, the worse the fallout would be, so we all just ... kept putting it off.”

“Well, we’re about to see exactly how bad the fallout is gonna be; I’m given to understand that Barton bolted and fired up a Quinjet before anyone could stop him. He disabled the tracking on it, but I bet you dollars to doughnuts he’s headed your way.”

Phil lifted his face out of his hands, only to let his forehead droop forward onto his desk with a dull _thunk_.

“I suppose I’d better tell the rest of the team what’s about to happen and make sure all the weapons are locked down before someone shoots first and asks questions later.”

Fury scowled.

“You think one of the people under your command would shoot an Avenger?”

“I think we’re all a little trigger happy right now, and don’t need any surprises. Plus, Skye…”

“Daisy.” Phil lifted his head slightly, just enough to prop his chin on the arms that were now folded on his desk, and sighed again, this time in frustration.

“Dammit, how come _everyone’s_ picking that up faster than I am? Anyway, she doesn’t need a gun to hit someone from a distance, and right now Agent Morse is itching for a little action. Not to mention her … _history_ with Agent Barton.”

“Well, you just sit tight and try to keep everything and everyone in one piece. I’m en route as we speak; I won’t get there before Barton does, but hopefully I can beat the other Avengers and take some of the heat off of you when they arrive.”

“Oh, I expect I’ll still be dealing with Barton when that happens, so it’s much appreciated.”

Fury pressed something just out of frame, and his image winked out as Phil sighed for the third time, letting his head fall forward again.

This was bad. This was so very, _very_ bad. Not _quite_ as bad as getting stabbed in the back by a demi-god with daddy issues and a magic spear, but pretty close, especially considering he was likely to be gut-shot by an arrow before the day was out.

_Intentionally_. Because Clint Barton never missed, and if he wanted you dead quickly, you’d take the arrow in the eye or in the throat.

If he were indeed out for blood, Clint would not want Phil to die quickly.


	2. Ten Ways Clint Barton COULD Have Found Out That Phil Coulson Isn’t Drinking Mead and Feasting in Valhalla (Shut Up, Thor), But Didn’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a miracle that Phil's cover hadn't been blown long before now.

  1. For Phil to have had the common sense and decency to _not_ face down a Norse God, armed only with sarcasm and an untested experimental weapon, and therefore NOT HAVING BEEN KILLED IN THE FIRST PLACE.
  2. Fury pulling him aside after the alien voodoo/needle-torture, and just fucking telling him.
  3. _Phil_ coming to find him after the alien voodoo/needle-torture (or "rehab in Tahiti", whatever, man) and just fucking telling him
  4. Any one of the many, _many_ other SHIELD agents who saw Phil at the Hub or the Triskelion mentioning that the Fallen AgentTM who inspired the Avengers to unify and defeat the Chitauri was up and walking around again – at least before SHIELD was reduced to a metaphorical _and_ literal hole in the ground, dammit, fuck you very much, Hydra.
  5. Bumping into not-dead Phil when Steve and Clint went to Cleveland to pick Bucky up after a week at Slayer HQ, which was a story in and of itself. Steve is like catnip to Baby Slayers (aside from the Captain Dorito factor, apparently he’s all tingly and glowy in magic-space, stupid serum), and the ones who could pry themselves off of _him_ couldn’t stop poking at Clint’s biceps.
  6. Buffy or Giles taking pity on Clint and his severe mopiness any time they were at the Tower for Barnes’ therapy sessions, and setting aside the literal reams of non-disclosure agreements they had signed before Phil and Fury would let them within 100 yards of the Tower.
  7. Clint realizing that only Phil would have told Fury to call in his good friend Rupert to find a therapist for Barnes.
  8. When Clint comes _this close_ to pulling an Elle Woods during Team Movie Night (i.e., throwing food at the TV and screaming, “LIAR!”) because no, Westley, death _can_ stop true love, you son of a bitch.   Fuck you, Cary Elwes. It would have been nice to have _someone_ tell him that he was wrong. Seriously. Buffy was there, she watched him tear up, she could have said something.
  9. At the end of _Back to the Future, Part I_ , when Bucky starts needling Tony (again) about Papa Stark promising the world flying cars someday, he’s had seventy years to get it right, _where’s my flying car_? And then Clint has to leave the room because oh God, _Lola_ , but instead of Tasha coming after him to calm him down before he breaks something, Buffy could have let him know that Phil was still driving his midlife-crisis-mobile around.
  10. When Clint asked Fury after Sokovia how he managed to pull a fully-manned and operational helicarrier out of his ass, Fury could have told him the truth instead of just smirking in that inscrutable lying spy way he had.




	3. How It Happened

After Barnes’ breakthrough, Buffy gradually handed off the greater part of his therapy to other people.  LOTS of other people, people with degrees and training and military experience beyond stalking supernatural death machines with archaic weapons.  Her job had never been to fix him, not really, just to get him to the point where he _could_ be fixed, and she left that to wiser heads than her own.  Also, less busy ones, since being The Slayer was still a full-time job, even with if she is not the _only_ girl in all the world these days.

Still, she doesn't exactly disappear into the night and out of the Avenger's lives once Bucky starts speaking again, and also starts doing things like showering and eating without being prompted.  Even though she's no longer his _only_ therapist, he takes comfort from her presence, and he trusts her more than anyone else except Steve, and maybe Sam.  _Maybe_.  On good days.

(“What can I say, Summers?  He’s imprinted on you, like a baby duckling.  Your very own little murder duckling.”  Buffy blinked slowly.

“…Sam, I swear to God, if you start calling me _Mama Duck_ ….”

“Goslings imprint, too – how do you feel about Mother Goose instead?”  Silence.  Cold, ominous, very threatening silence.  “Okay, I do _not_ like that face you are showing me right now, so I’mma scratch both of those off the list, okay?  Okay.”)

Not to mention the fact that the Avengers’ and their associated support staff/BFFs/significant others found that they _also_ liked having her around.   She could match Tony _and_ Steve quip for quip, took Wanda out for mochas, proclaimed Vision to be far less weird in both appearance and behavior than 99% of the demons she’s encountered, went shoe-shopping with Pepper, and tossed bird-puns around with Clint and Sam (even if she refuses to treat Redwing like a puppy).  So, she started spending time with them outside of therapy sessions, whenever her schedule allows it.

Which is indirectly how the team came to discover Phil Coulson's status as considerably more alive than a Norwegian Blue Parrot: because Bucky insisted that she join them for the regular movie nights instituted by Tony in his continuing efforts to catch the two super-soldiers up on the 21st century, and no one raised any objections. Quite the opposite, actually.

It was one of the rare Saturdays where Buffy both had several hours at her disposal _and_ didn't need her to wear her therapist hat at all; instead of just a movie _night_ , they could have a full-fledged marathon. Tony had been champing at the bit to show the two nonagenarians all seven Star Wars movies for months now, but he had to wait until Buffy gave the go-ahead and had the time to watch _with_ him, just in case.  Apparently she was concerned that watching the protagonist’s hand get chopped off before falling down a bottomless pit to certain doom might have a deleterious effect on Bucky’s mental being; who knew?  Over Steve’s strenuous objections, they were watching the original trilogy _first_ , and only then would they watch the prequel abominations, before finally proceeding to _The Force Awakens._

(“That makes no sense, we should start with Episode I, _it’s literally the first installment_ …”

“Shhh, Captain Bossypants, only the people who saw them in the original order of production get to have an opinion.  Besides, if you watch _The Phantom Menace_ first, you won’t want to keep going, unless it’s in the vain hope that Jar Jar will get what’s coming to him." 

“Also, Han Solo.   Just….Han Solo.”  *dreamy sigh*)

That was the plan, and a good one, but unfortunately, they never made it that far.  Episodes IV and V were viewed, to everyone’s enjoyment – Bucky _still_ being, in spite of everything, the secret nerd who is fascinated by  SCIENCE!, and who chose to spend the last night before his deployment at the Stark Expo. Spaceships and laser swords?  Totally his gig.

Sure, he got a _little_ tense towards the end of _The Empire Strikes Back_ , when Han gets frozen and then the aftermath of the confrontation between Vader and Luke left him a little trembly, but it’s fine, it’s all fine.  Really, he's okay, because this time Peggy (Leia) knows _exactly_ where Bucky (Luke) is after he falls, and she can come get him before anything worse happens to him, and he gets a new arm (from his friends, not his enemies), and yeah, okay, so Steve (Han) is captured and stuck in stasis, but the Cavalry can follow him, he’s not _lost_ or anything, they know exactly where _he_ is, too, and they’re already planning his rescue….

Plus, it’s hard to get too upset about _anything_ when Steve’s on his left, slinging an arm around his shoulder and tucking him into his side, and Buffy’s snuggled up on his right, draping her legs over his and tightly squeezing his non-metal hand in both of hers.  Super-soldiers and Slayers both run a little warmer than normal: the perfect way to banish any lingering memories of the cold.

That being said, when Tony announced “Potty and pizza break!” Bucky was still glad for a pause before starting the next installment, for the lights to come up and remind him that it’s just a movie, just a story (even though his brain is screaming at him to _hurry, hurry, gotta save Steve/Han, whoever, hurry, hurry_ ).  The real Steve, the one sitting beside him, gave him an intense one-armed side hug and a quick pat on the thigh before chasing after Tony to argue about pizza toppings, and maybe grab a drink.

Which was the precise moment that Buffy inadvertently blew four years of operational secrecy straight to hell.  She meant well, just a quick check-in with Bucky, but _whoops._

"Never thought when I was watching this the first time that someday I'd know, not one, but _two_ guys with creepy robo-prosthetic left arms.  Weird, huh?" she grinned, scootching back into the sofa corner and lifting one leg to poke Bucky in the ribs with her toes.  He smiled back reassuringly and made a playful grab at her foot, which she easily avoided.

"Who's the other?"  Bucky was genuinely curious; he'd thought he was still alone in that respect, since even the best prosthetics available to the general public were still _far_ inferior to the thing Hydra had welded to his shoulder.  It would be good to compare notes with someone who had something as advanced as his arm, or even something close.

"Oh, Giles' friend Phil," she said absently and almost unthinkingly.  Uncurling from her spot on the couch, she stood and stretched, spine popping alarmingly as she bent backwards; then she folded herself in half at the waist, palms flat on the carpet and head dangling loosely.  "He's the one who recommended me to Fury, actually, when Steve asked him for help with you and your messed-up brain.  Dude got _his_ left hand chopped off with an _axe_ not too long ago, can you believe that?  I mean, according to him, it was better than the alternative, turning into stone or something crazy like that, and it was apparently a mercy strike by a teammate, but _still_ , sweet muppety Odin, that’s ..."

She could probably have gone on in that vein indefinitely, and Bucky would have gladly listened, but she was interrupted by an unholy crash and splatter from the communal kitchen off the lounge, which brought everyone running to see what had happened.

Clint had dropped the coffeepot he had just raised to his lips, or at least it had fallen from suddenly nerveless fingers, and he was chalk-white and trembling.  Apparently, he hadn’t even noticed the hot liquid splattering all over his pants and socked feet; all of his attention was riveted on Buffy from the moment she appeared in the doorway with the others, his eyes huge and pleading.

" _Phil_ ... as in ... _Coulson_?"  

Buffy froze, mouth open, but nodded in confirmation.  Tony swore, a blistering string of syllables that ordinarily would have had Pepper swatting at him with a rolled up newspaper, but now only elicited a shocked gasp – probably more at Buffy’s revelation than Tony’s language.  No one else could speak for several heartbeats.

Clint's legs buckled and he would have fallen, except that Steve darted forward to grab him and hold him up.   In the process, he dropped the beer he had been uncapping, but Natasha managed to snag it out of the air before it added any more spilled beverages or broken glass to the mess on the floor.

Under normal circumstances, Tony (and possibly Buffy) would have made a snarky comment about the super-spy saving the super-soldier from a super-spill, but he was too busy glaring daggers at Buffy, who'd flushed a bright, appalling red.  Pepper, phone in hand, ready to order (because otherwise there would be ten meat-lovers pizzas and no giant salad, thanks to FRIDAY’s programming), sank slowly onto a stool at the kitchen island, eyes wide and hand clapped over her mouth.  Natasha spat to the side, and said something unintelligible yet terrifying in Russian.

Maria Hill tried to sidle out of the room before anyone noticed her (probably to phone Fury and let him know that the jig was up), but Wanda spotted her and froze her in place.  The part of the Vision that had been Jarvis (and had patently adored Phil) kept the android rooted to his seat in muted sadness and betrayal.  Bucky had never known Coulson, but he'd heard enough from Clint to know that this revelation was a body-blow to his buddy-in-brainwashing, and so he stepped up on the archer's other side, taking some of his weight from Steve.

That's when the yelling started, once everyone had a couple of seconds to recover from the immediate shock.

Sam took charge of the situation; _someone_ had to, and everyone else was either too emotionally compromised or too confused.  He whistled sharply, cutting through the babble.

"Someone get Barton a chair, and grab the trash can.  Seriously, you look like you're about to blow chunks everywhere, pal.  Everyone else, shut the hell up.”  Amazingly, they did.  “Summers.  You.  Explain.  NOW."


	4. Patriotic Looming and a Lot of Yelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what is says on the lid.
> 
> Also, Lucky is a good dog and sneaky Clint is sneaky.

Presumably, people were still shouting at each other. Clint couldn’t say for certain, and by now, he didn’t give a flying fart in space whether they were or not.  At first, the commotion following Buffy’s little “revelation” had actually been _productive_ , for the acquisition of useful and pertinent information (albeit at _really_ high volume).  After that, the noise had degenerated into yelling for the sake of yelling, and at that point, he'd taken out his hearing aids. He’d heard pretty much all he’d needed to hear.

Buffy had been more than willing to tell them everything she knew, since she'd already violated the biggest clause of her confidentiality agreements. Fury was gonna chew her out no matter what, now it was just a question of degree.  Besides, she'd protested strongly against signing the damn things in the first place.  Unfortunately, she didn't actually know all that much beyond the basic sequence of events, whereas Maria Hill knew considerably more ...  but was also far less willing to share with the class.  It took a _lot_ of convincing, but since the damage was done, she'd finally thrown up her hands in resignation, and told them every last disturbing detail.  Even Natasha was visibly sickened at the lengths to which Fury had gone to bring P… _Coulson_ back from the dead.  Clint just wanted to shoot someone.

_Okay, so the mysterious Project TAHITI was really code for blue aliens and unspeakable bodily horrors that keep you alive, but also cause you to go psycho-banana-balls.  Just peachy._   He already had enough horrifying mental images rattling around in his skull, thank you very much; he sure as hell didn’t need _that_ to add to the tally.  No wonder P … _Coulson_ had been so uncharacteristically grim when he was in charge of the damn thing.  That had not been a good time.  Not at all.

On the plus side, he now knew what pre-serum Steve had looked like taking on a much larger guy, except without the whole “getting his ass kicked” part: namely, Buffy going toe-to-toe with Steve.  _He_ was looming patriotically, and had broken out his very best “Captain-America-is-disappointed-in- _you_ ” FaceTM.  _She_ was 100% done with being blamed for something that's not actually her fault, and had her hands on her hips, head tilted back to meet his gaze, scorching-death-eyeball to scorching-death-eyeball.  Clint didn’t need to read either of their lips to tell that she was giving just as good as she got, and neither of them looked about to back down any time soon. 

It was kind of hot, actually, so much concentrated blonde badass in one room, but it was also extremely terrifying.  If Clint hadn’t been so sunk in miserable apathy, he’d probably need a change of pants (What kind of stain? Take your pick, flip a coin: it could go either way ... or both simultaneously). 

As it was, he was just gonna stay put until his thoughts stopped whirling and his legs could support him again.  Steve and Bucky had parked his wobbly ass on the floor at his request, in a corner facing the door where he could see everything and no one could get behind him. Once they got him settled, he curled up into a little ball of misery and betrayal.   Natasha, bless her, had spent a good twenty minutes at his side, petting his hair and whispering Russian endearments into his ear.  At least, he _hoped_ they were endearments; she could have been making death threats against Phil and Fury for all he knew, his Russian still sucked hairy monkey balls.  Either way, he'd take it.

Lucky was tucked up against Clint's other hip, head draped over his lap.  He’d licked Clint’s hand a few times, whimpered sympathetically, before promptly falling asleep.  Kind of a miracle, considering how loud the room was. Still, the mutt made a nice warm comforting presence at his side, a reminder that at least he had _someone's_ total affection and loyalty, and Clint really needed that right now.  _Good dog._

While Steve took his anger out on Buffy, Tony and Pepper interrogated Maria, tag-teaming her in their usual fashion.  Tony ranted and raved, gesticulating wildly; Pepper sat quietly, calm and composed, but her lips were set and white, promising evisceration if she wasn't satisfied with the answers she got.  Maria, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms, didn’t flinch under their scrutiny; she was used to Tony’s tantrums by now, and had faced tougher questioners than Pepper in the field.  At least Pepper wouldn’t rip out her toenails.  Probably.  It would certainly make things awkward on their next mani-pedi date if she did.

Bucky had booked it out of there as soon as Clint was seated, leaving him with a comforting pat on the shoulder.  Clint couldn’t exactly blame him; he was still uncomfortable with the expression of anger levels any stronger than "I will murder you and all your loved ones at Mario Kart".  Wanda and Vision had followed him shortly, the former muttering about taking some aspirin and lying down.  She had one hell of a headache from all of the negative emotions pouring off of everyone. 

Ever the bastion of sanity in this motley crew, Sam had spent all of about five seconds trying to calm everyone down before he gave up. No point in trying to out-yell Tony _and_ Steve, that was an exercise in futility. Instead, he got a beer and made himself comfortable until people were willing to listen to reason … or at least had shouted themselves hoarse and he could get a word in edgewise.

Even without sound, though, the whole thing was just too damn _much_. 

_God-fucking-dammit, Phil._

Clint closed his eyes, leaned forward until his forehead touched his knees, and concentrated on his breathing.

_Inhale … 2… 3 … 4.  Hold … 2 ... 3 … 4.  Exhale … 2 … 3 … 4.  Inhale ... 2...3...4...._

When the blood stopped pounding in his ears, he looked up again.  Tony was still waving his arms around, but this time with a purpose: putting FRIDAY through her paces as information-gatherer extraordinaire.  Time-stamped files, photographs, and videos flickered across holographic screens, showing everything that Coulson and his _new_ team had been up to over the past four years.  It's a lot of data to sift through; there's even a file with a picture of Phil with Buffy … and Phil’s old BFF Rupert Giles. That hurt more than Clint was willing to admit, that Giles had known and he hadn’t.  Just one more person keeping painful secrets from him.

One video in particular caught his attention, playing in the upper right hand corner of the main screen.  Without his hearing aids, Clint couldn’t tell if it had audio or not, but he doubted it, and anyway, the sound wasn’t the point.  The footage was grainy, a black and white security camera, but the subject was unmistakably Phil. He was in full tac gear, briefing a bunch of other agents in a large hangar,with a big fancy plane in the background.  Time-stamped three days ago, it had been taken at The Playground, one of Fury’s super-secret hidden contingency bases.

Clint wasn’t _supposed_ to know about The Playground, let alone its exact location. No one was except Fury and maybe the Koenigs ... but he did.  He’d made a habit of knowing stuff he wasn’t supposed to know.  It's mostly how he's still alive.

He took a careful look around the room; no one was paying any attention to him.  Even Natasha was distracted.   Making use off all of his sniper’s stealth, he carefully got to his feet without attracting attention. In the process, he somehow managed to slide his thigh out from under Lucky’s head and replace it with a throw pillow without waking the sleeping dog up.

“Good boy,” he murmured, patting the dog’s neck before slipping noiselessly out into the hall. 

When he was far enough away from the lounge to be completely out of earshot, he put his hearing aids back in.

“FRIDAY?” he murmured cautiously, just in case one of the others was nearby.  The AI, showing that Tony had programmed her with all the tact that he himself lacked, answered him at the same volume.

“Yes, Agent Barton?”

“Warm up one of the Quinjets for me, please?”

“Of course, Agent Barton.”


	5. A Very Merry Unwelcoming Committee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has a lot of feelings about Phil not being dead and other people lying to him. 
> 
> This is not a situation where a cake full of rainbows and smiles is gonna help.

Clint couldn't exactly keep his arrival at the Playground quiet, not when FRIDAY was busily hacking into their security system to open the hangar for him.  Plus, he'd had a reputation as both a stubborn lunatic _and_ a dedicated pain-in-the-ass among his fellow agents, so … yeah.  There were probably going to be a _lot_ of angry people pointing guns at him in the near future: SHIELD's idea of a welcoming committee.

He was quite wrong, as it turned out; there were only three agents waiting for him at the base of the ramp, none armed.  This was not encouraging, however, not after Clint recognized the one in the middle.  He'd rather have faced down Rumlow and his  STRIKE thugs, to be perfectly honest.

"You shouldn't be here, Barton,” Melinda May said, as if describing an unbreakable law of the universe: _water is wet, the sky is blue, and Clint Barton should be elsewhere right now._  

"Yeah, well, there're a lot of things that shouldn't have fucking happened," he snapped back, planting his feet and folding his arms, mimicking her and the other two ladies flanking her.  "But they _did_ happen, and now here I am, and I think I'm at least owed a damn explanation, if not an apology, don't you?"

_Nobody but Phil could have coaxed the Cavalry out of her cubicle after Bahrain._ All Clint's pent-up anger ebbed slightly at that; if Phil couldn't have _him_ at his side, keeping him safe, at least he had Mel covering his six.  But then the rage roared back, blood surging in his ears until it was almost impossible to think straight.   He had known May (or thought he had), _trusted_ her, put his life in her hands on more than one occasion.   Now she was just one more former friend who hadn't seen fit to share with him that Phil wasn't fucking _dead_.

"Seriously, Clint, you need to leave," the tall agent on May's left added, soft concern written all over her face.   Clint scowled as she shook a few loose strands of blonde hair out of her eyes.

" _Et tu, Bobbi_?  You know, I _want_ to be surprised that you're in on this mess of batshit crazy, I really fucking do, but when I think of back-stabbing, double-crossing bitches with hidden agendas...."

The unfamiliar baby agent on May's right let out a giggle before clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle it; May and Bobbi turned and glared at her.

"What?  He sounds just like Hunter did when he first got here!"  Clint choked a little in surprise, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from doing something stupid ... well, _more_ stupid, anyway.  He was _here_ , after all.

" _The British knock-off ex knew that Phil's alive, and I didn't?_   The FUCK is this bullshit, _Barbara?_   Definitely a new low, even for you."  Bobbi scowled at the use of her full name, and he could see her knuckles turn white.

" _HEY!_ Since when am _I_ the knock-off?  I'm the ex- _husband,_ you're just the ex- _boyfriend_. _"_

"Not.  Helping. Hunter," Bobbi hissed between clinched teeth, as Lance Hunter sauntered out of the shadows.  Clint took a few angry steps towards him, only to be stopped by May’s hand on his shoulder.

“Barton, you really need to go.”

The expression on his face must have been truly terrifying, because May's impassive mask cracked for the briefest fraction of an instant.

"Your resting bitchface just upgraded to resting murderface," the baby agent piped up; he had to give her credit for only quailing a little bit when he turned the full focused force of his sniper’s glare on her. 

"Can it, Mini-May."  She grinned, unaccountably pleased.

"I know you probably meant that as an insult, but I'm actually really flattered by the comparison."  Clint ignored her.

"Where.  The Fuck.  Is Coulson.”  It wasn't a question.  May sighed deeply, like she was wearied by the world in general (and Barton in particular), and squeezed his shoulder just the tiniest bit tighter. 

"Agent Coulson died in the Chitauri Invasion four years ago, Barton.  You know that; we were both at his funeral."  Clint snorted and slapped her hand away.

"Just like Fury was killed by the Winter Soldier?  Yeah, no, not buying that bullshit a second time, not when the One-Eyed Wonder is still walking around, fucking with my LIFE.  Phil died, sure, okay, but then Fury didn't let him _stay_ dead, and when he finished fucking with the laws of nature, he didn’t bother to tell anyone who _mattered_ what he’d done.  Between Buffy, Hill, and Stark’s AI, I know pretty much everything, there’s no reason to keep toeing the goddamn company line."

Bobbi and Hunter exchanged worried glances; Mini-May chewed her lip.  Clint could feel the already fraying threads of his control start to snap.

"I need to speak to Coulson, _right the fuck NOW_ , or so help me...." he was interrupted by the Baby Agent, who apparently just couldn’t keep her mouth _shut_ (later, he would commiserate; right now he just wanted to disembowel someone).

"Y'know, for someone who pals around with Captain America, you sure swear a lot."

Clint didn’t, _couldn’t_ , say anything in reply to that, just let out a wordless snarl and started forward; May and Bobbi moved to intercept him and ...

"Barton, that's _enough."_

Clint spun on his heel, and then had to close his eyes against the sudden rush of dizziness.  Because it's Coulson, of course, it's _Phil_ , but ... the Phil standing there is not the Phil from four years ago, the one he'd last seen at Pegasus.  He's not _his_ Phil.

_That_ Phil, the one who was his handler and his friend and the firm center of his universe, was all tailored suits and crisply pressed shirts with cuff links and perfectly knotted ties.  Even in the midst of a particularly grueling mission, he'd always remained as firm and as upright as ever.  He'd never flagged, he'd never faltered, and he'd never failed.

_This_ Phil is exhausted and wearied in a way that Clint has never seen before: slumped and battered and almost defeated.  His ( _rumpled_!) shirt is rolled up at the cuffs and open at the collar, and Clint isn't sure which is more responsible for his sudden inability to breathe: the bare, vulnerable skin of Phil's throat (usually hidden by his ever-present tie), or the echoing _absence_ beneath the empty, dangling sleeve where his left hand and forearm should be.

Fuck everything and everyone twice, Phil's wearing _jeans_.

The anger and hurt and betrayal, which had all faded momentarily at the mere sight of Phil standing there alive and in (mostly) one piece instead of dead and buried for four years, came roaring back with a vengeance.  Phil had changed, changed a LOT, and _Clint hadn't been there to see it happen_.  First, because Phil had died, and then, because he had _lied_.

Clint stomped across the hangar, footsteps echoing off the concrete, Phil's steady gaze tracking his every move. 

(Behind him, Baby Agent looked horrified and raised her hands to stop him, but May waved her off; _this is something they need to deal with themselves, Daisy_ ).

He and Phil faced each other from a couple of feet apart, and the silence lasted too long, stretching into awkward, but by God, Clint wasn't gonna be the one to end it; he’s the wronged party here.

Then Phil cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow raised: _report, Barton_.

It’s not Clint’s finest moment, because he just plain lost it.  He reared back and laid a textbook perfect left hook across Phil's jaw, knocking him to the floor.  He _could_ have evaded the punch, easily, Clint had telegraphed what he was gonna do pretty obviously, but Phil'd just ... stood there and let Clint, the guy who notoriously never missed, take a swing at him.

And now Phil was lying there on the ground, gingerly rubbing his jaw and checking for loose teeth, and he didn't even look mad.  Just resigned.

"Got that out of your system, Barton?"  There’s blood on Phil’s fingertips and oozing sluggishly from his split lip.

"For the moment, _sir_."


	6. Less Like Budapest, More Like Marrakesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue talking happens.
> 
> Clint has a plan. Phil is dubious about said plan, but he's never been very good about saying no to Clint...

Coulson’s spiffy new _directorial_ office was a lot like his old one (now a pile of rubble at the bottom of the Potomac), albeit a lot larger and fancier: all exposed brickwork and big windows. Same set-up, slightly different layout, but the essence was the same: neatly labeled files in stacks, empty inbox, overflowing outbox, vintage spy gear _everywhere_. He even had a squashy, overstuffed couch tucked away in a corner, the way he used to, and Clint’s heart seized a little bit when he saw the ratty purple throw draped over the arm.

The fire-axe mounted prominently on the wall was new, though, _what the fuck, Phil_ , as was the detached robot arm lying on the desk.

Clint made a beeline for the couch, habit and the need for comfort winning out over a desire to be petulant and break with tradition. He did, however, defiantly put his boots up on the upholstery.

In the past, Coulson would have knocked his feet down again, or at least _tsked_ disapprovingly, raising one eyebrow until Clint dropped his boots to the floor himself. This time, he just sighed, and punched in a quick sequence on the keypad next to the door. There was a _click,_ the walls flashed blue for a brief instant, and then Clint felt his ears pop. Security mode engaged, then. _Lovely._

Coulson picked up his left arm and screwed it into its … socket (thankfully hidden up under his sleeve), fingers twitching as synapses connected, and Clint couldn’t repress a shudder. He didn’t like thinking about P…Coulson being that badly hurt, because he’s pretty sure that particular line of thought has dragons and other dread beasties lurking down along it.

“So, word on the street is that the new hand has a laser finger,” Clint said with a lightness he didn’t feel, trying to cut the tension. It didn’t work, since Coulson completely ignored him. Instead, he turned around to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, rubbing the back of his neck in consideration.

“I wouldn't ordinarily recommend combining alcohol with a long overdue serious conversation, but I think this case calls for it. Scotch?" 

“God, yes,” and before the words were out of his mouth, Coulson was already rummaging in a cabinet under the window to produce two glasses and a bottle of the good stuff. Maybe it would make the talk they were about to have easier; he’s pretty sure it couldn’t possibly make things worse. Coulson poured for both of them, and Clint took a perverse pleasure in _not_ letting his fingers touch Coulson’s when he handed him a drink.

Coulson turned away, and then paused; in the past, he’d always sat behind his desk to talk, while Clint sprawled on the couch, for mission prep, or debriefs, or just shooting the breeze.

Not this time. Instead, Coulson perched on the edge of the desk; not particularly comfortable, perhaps, but then again, it meant that there was nothing separating them, either. It broke their old pattern of asset and handler, too, which was probably a good thing. Probably.

(Clint was resolutely _not_ thinking about the things that position _did_ to Coulson’s thighs, especially in jeans. Nope, not at all.)

"So ... where do you want to start?"  P…Coulson looked slightly uneasy, which meant his insides were probably tying themselves into knots.  Clint had a lot of practice reading Coulson body language, which basically meant taking any emotion that the man actually _showed_ , and multiplying it by about a thousand. _Slightly uneasy_ on Coulson would be full-blown panic coming from anyone else.

 _Good_.

“I know why Fury didn’t tell us you were alive, or at least I know why Hill _thinks_ Fury didn’t tell us, which is close enough. I know why Buffy didn’t tell us, and I know why none of the other SHIELD agents told us, either. What I don’t know is why _you_ didn’t tell us. Any of us, really, but especially Tash and me.”

Coulson didn’t speak for several long moments; instead, he stared moodily into his drink, gently swirling the contents, as if the answer lurked in the amber depths of his glass. Perhaps it did.

“At first, I didn’t tell you … because I couldn’t.”

Clint let out a disgusted snort, and took a big gulp of his scotch, enjoying the burn down his throat. It was a good distraction, if nothing else.

“Well, it ain’t exactly rocket surgery, boss; you just pick up the phone and say ‘Hey, Barton, Romanov, I’m not dead’. Or, if you’re feeling dramatic, you fly Lola up to the top of Stark’s ego tower and deliver the message in person. Either way, it’s a pretty simple process.”

Coulson worried his lower lip between his teeth, obviously choosing his next words with care.

“No, Barton, I _literally_ couldn’t tell you, not for quite some time. How much do you know about Project TAHITI?”

Clint shrugged and crossed his legs, propping one arm up behind his head

“Blue alien goo, brain needles, memory wipes, creepy as fuck alien symbols? At least you only carved those on the nearest bit of wall instead of into yourself or other people; good show on not _totally_ losing your mind, by the way.”

Coulson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, I suppose that covers the essential points. Well, all the other subjects had to undergo a _complete_ mindwipe; I was the first one where a _partial_ mindwipe had been attempted, and no one knew if it would be enough. No point in letting you all celebrate my resurrection, if I’d just have to disappear on you later, whether into a new identity, or more … permanently.”

Clint turned a little green as the implications of that hit him.

“Was that … really a possibility?”

This time Coulson was the one who shrugged.

“May was prepared to do it, if push came to shove; she put together my new team as a contingency plan, in case I became unstable and needed to be contained or … put down. It wouldn’t have been the optimal solution, but yeah, it was on the table as a last resort. Anyway, no one wanted get your hopes up and then have to disappoint you _again_ if things went south, so it seemed the better part of valor to keep quiet for the time being.”

Clint considered that.

“Yeah, but I’m willing to bet that that nobody explained any of that to you at the time; nothing stopping _you_ from spilling the beans.”

Coulson smiled sadly, and tapped his temple meaningfully.

“There was plenty stopping me. They took that into account, didn’t want me getting any bright ideas, so they implanted a very strong DO NOT CONTACT order when they went in to overwrite my memories. I literally _couldn’t_ have told you, even if I didn’t know why that was so.”

“And later, when the conditioning wore off?”

“By then … by then it had been too long. I was afraid you’d hate me. You seemed to be doing all right without me, you and Natasha and the others. You’d done your grieving, you didn’t need me coming along and messing everything up again.”

Coulson jerked his head to the side as Clint’s glass whipped past him to smash against the wall.

“Or alternatively, I was afraid you’d kill me again for lying about being dead.”

“Yeah, see, that’s the reason you _should_ have been afraid,” Clint snarled, getting to his feet and pacing the length of the room. “’Cause that’s all bullshit, Coulson, it really fucking is.”

“I know; you’re right.” That stopped Clint up short. Coulson set his glass down with a decisive _clink_ , and his face just _crumpled._ “There’s no good reason, no good excuse. I should have come told the team the moment I could, and for that I’m sorry. I just … couldn’t.”

Clint scowled and plopped back down on the couch.

“Yeah, well, whoever told you I … we … were okay was full of shit.” Coulson slumped over a little – probably in relief that Clint was no longer within punching range.

“Well, it _was_ Director Fury, after all.” Clint blew a disdainful raspberry, and the corner of Coulson’s mouth twitched.

“I mean … we were okay _eventually_ , but … well, it took awhile. Pepper cried a lot, Natasha got extra stabby on missions, Tony went into overdrive on developing new impalement-proof tac suits, and me … well, let’s just say there’re a lot fewer mobsters in Bed-Stuy.” Clint started pacing again, unable to sit still.

Coulson gripped the edge of his desk, leaning back slightly, and bowed his head.

“I _am_ sorry, Clint.”

Clint paused in his pacing for a moment, hands on his hips.

“I’m giving you a pass for right now, boss, because of the whole ‘back from the dead’ thing’, but I reserve the right to be pissed off at random intervals about this rom now until eternity.”

Coulson sighed, and smiled weakly.

“Fair enough. It was shitty thing to do, to everyone on the team, but especially to you.”

Something about Coulson’s tone when he said _you_ caught Clint’s attention attention.

“Why _especially_ me?”

Coulson made a helpless, defeated gesture, and couldn’t meet Clint’s eyes.

“Because … because you were the most important person in my life … before. And because it was easier to keep our friendship as a cherished memory than to risk screwing it all up by saying something.”

“Saying … something? About … what, exactly?” It _sounded_ like Phil was trying to … nope, that was crazy talk right there. But something warm and hopeful started blooming in Clint’s chest anyway.

Phil took a deep breath, let it out, took another. Swallowed, bit his lip, swallowed again.

“Clint. You … I …..”

Oh, _jeez_ , this was bad, if Coulson was all outta snark and turning incoherent.

“For a long time now, my feelings for you have gone … well beyond the professional. Beyond friendship, even. And … I was afraid of losing even _that_ , once you found out that I had lied to you. So, I was a coward, and kept telling myself that it was better this way, when really it was just better, _easier_ for me.”

Clint could only stare blankly at him for a couple of heartbeats.

“Gonne have to spell it out a little more clearly for the dumb carnie, boss,” he said hoarsely. And Phil bristled at that, the way he always had when Clint got disparaging about his past and/or his intelligence. “Just so we’re clear, you’re saying you … _like-_ like me, right?”

Phil slumped a little more.

“That would be one way of putting it, yes. And before you say anything, I know that my feelings are completely out of line, and you should in no way feel obligated to MMMMRPRPPPHHHHH!”

He didn't get any further because Clint reached out, grabbed two handfuls of the front of Phil's shirt, and yanked him up to standing.  The muffled splutter was because their lips had just collided and Clint was kissing the living daylights out of him.

It was glorious, wonderful, everything Clint had ever dreamed of … for all of about twenty seconds before Phil pulled away with a muffled curse. Clint made a hungry noise of disappointment, and tried to resume the kissing, but Phil held him off with a palm spread flat against his chest.

“Clint, no, stop! We … we _have_ to stop.”

“Nope, no stopping, I’ve waited too damn long for this.” Phil sighed.

“Clint. We … can’t. Not now, not like this,” and _oh_ , Phil’s voice cracked on the last word, and his face was absolutely _wrecked_. “You’re still furious with me, and rightly so. You tried to take my head off twice in the past half-hour … literally.”

“Yeah, well, I’m over it now. Growing as a person, being the better man, all that jazz.” He leaned in again, but Phil still held him off with the full strength of his robot hand, which holy _hell_ , now Clint was imagining all the ways he could make use of that feature in other circumstances, _and now is not the time, Barton!_

Down, boy. Save it for later.

“This is too important to screw up by moving too quickly, before we’ve fully talked. _You’re_ too important to me to screw this up.”

“It’s okay, I have a plan!”

Phil eyed him dubiously.

“Am I going to like this plan?”

“You are _definitely_ going to like this plan.” Clint grinned at Phil cockily, but sadly, his former handler knew him far too well to take those words at face value.

“Rank the plan on a scale from Oslo to Budapest, please.” And there, right on schedule, was the eyebrow.

Clint made a so-so, waggling gesture with one hand, even though he hated removing it from Phil’s denim-clad ass.

“Marrakesh, maybe?” Phil groaned, and buried his face in the space between Clint’s shoulder and neck. Clint patted his back soothingly, but not _too_ soothingly enough not to enjoy the feel of firm, warm muscle under Phil’s shirt.

“Okay, so, you’re worried that I’m still harboring some lingering resentment over four years worth of lies and deception, which is … not an insignificant concern. We cross that particular bridge by having angry hate-sex and working all the bad juju out of our systems. Next, we’ll segue into ‘Thank God You’re Not Dead’ sex, because we seem to have skipped that part of our reunion with all the yelling and the punching and the throwing things.   Finally, we finish up with ‘I love you more than anything, and we are both idiots’ sex, which should totally solve any remaining issues.”

Phil froze, and then started laughing against Clint’s collar, while Clint’s heart tried its damnedest to hammer its way out of his chest. Finally, Phil sighed, raised his head, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Clint’s.

“You’re right, this is going to be _exactly_ like Marrakesh.”

Clint grinned into Phil’s kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come tumble with me!](http://oft-goes-awry.tumblr.com/)


	7. Aftermath and Predictable Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which loose threads are tied up, nosy baby agents are nosy, and Tony Stark ignores a very sincere warning.

“It’s awfully quiet, isn’t it? I mean, they’ve been up there awhile now, Hawkeye was absolutely ready to tear someone apart with his bare hands, and now … nothing.” Daisy shifted her weight from side to side on the lab stool, making it creak. Her fingers tapped restlessly on her thigh as she studied the stairway that led to Coulson’s office

Fitz looked up from the tablet where he was reviewing the base’s security schematics (Stark’s AI had broken in _far_ too easily for his liking) with a distracted frown.

“Not really; security mode is on, so they’d have to be _very_ loud for us to hear anything from down here.”

“Well, considering that Agent Barton was about to burst a blood vessel, I wouldn’t necessarily expect the soundproofing to do much good,” Simmons chimed in from behind a smoking row of beakers filled with colorful, noxious-smelling liquids.

“I designed that soundproofing myself, _Jemma_ , it’s the same that we have in the hangar to keep the Quinjet from deafening the rest of the base, so unless you think Hawkeye has lungs to rival a roaring engine…”

“I’m not saying that, but you saw him when he arrived, _Leo…”_

Daisy watched them argue for a few seconds, then rattled Simmons’ beakers to get their attention, enjoying very much their twin deer-in-the-headlights looks at the interruption.

“Okay, point taken, Fitz’s soundproofing is great. But since we all agree that there’s a very angry Avenger upstairs with our boss, am I the only one who’s getting worried, just a little bit?”

“No, it’s definitely troubling, even though we know they have a lot to discuss,” Jemma agreed.

Fitz pursed his lips, and nodded.

“Soooo … don’t you think we maybe ought to check on them? Make sure everybody’s still alive and …unmaimed?”

Jemma perked up and removed her goggles; Fitz winced.

“The Director was pretty adamant that they weren’t to be disturbed.”

“C’mon, Fitz,” Simmons wheedled, eyes bright. "Just a quick peek; we'll nip up, make sure everything's okay, and then come right back down, no harm done."

"It's not spying, not really, it's just _concern_ ,” Daisy added.

* * * *

_45 minutes earlier …_

“Clint, this is the first and last time these words will cross my lips, but… _give_ _up_. Please. I am begging you.”

“Nope, I have the ultimate faith in your packrat habits, there is _something_ in this desk that we can use. Not giving up juuuusst yet.”

Phil rolled his eyes, but with a fondness that only Barton had ever been able to inspire in him. He didn't exactly _mind_ Clint rummaging through his office for something they could use to … ease the way, as it were. It was … very endearing, very typically Clint, to try and forge a way forward in the face of the impossible. As an added bonus, Clint’s current position, bent over the desk, did give Phil an excellent view of his … assets, and the constant rifling through his drawers drew a lot of attention to his arms, with bulging muscles sliding under the skin…

It’s just that his search was an exercise in futility, and he’d _told_ Clint that, so now they were wasting time, time that they could be using for other, more interesting activities. Activities he’d given up hope of ever indulging in, at least with this particular man, and now that all of his dreams had come true….

Okay, _yes,_ he minded. He minded a lot.

“You know, I do have the basics in my quarters, and medical or the commissary will surely have….”

Clint leveled him with a flat, unimpressed look over his shoulder.

“Boss. I have _so many_ fantasies involving you and this office. If you think I am walk-of-shaming my way across your super-secret base without fulfilling at least a few of them, you are a _crazy person_. One of us is getting bent over this desk now, TODAY, and I am not particular as to who.”

Phil’s mouth went dry; Clint turned back to his search. Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed in frustration.

“Clint. I don't even keep hand lotion in there, so I'm not sure what you expect to ..." he let his voice trail off as Clint straightened and backed away from the desk oh-so-slowly, eyes wide with shock. “What?”

Clint grabbed his wrist, tugged him forward, and pointed at the lower left-hand drawer, which was hanging open. Normally, it held extra office supplies: legal pads, boxes of paperclips, post-its, and so on. Now it was overflowing with condom packets (a few had even spilled out onto the carpet), and nestled among them, like an Easter egg in a basket of artificial grass, was an unopened (and unnecessarily over-sized, to Phil’s way of thinking) bottle of medical-grade lubricant. A bottle with a pump-top.

"Something you wanna share with the class, Phil?" Clint asked, eyebrow quirked inquiringly.  "There's a jumbo-sized box of wet-wipes in there, too."

"Those ... are not mine, or at least _I_ didn't put them there ..." Phil stammered, mind racing furiously. His eyes caught Clint’s right as they both came to the same, inevitable conclusion.

“May?” Phil nodded ruefully.

“May.” Clint grinned lasciviously, and Phil couldn’t help but laugh. "I _did_ ask her to lock down all of the weapons on base before you got here, just in case people got a little trigger-happy.  I guess she … ?"

"Well, I guess I have to forgive her for threatening me at first.  Maybe send her some flowers."

"Nope, give her chocolates, fancy beer, or something wearable and sparkly; she thinks flowers are a waste of money when all you can do is look at them, smell them, and then they die almost immediately, so what’s the point?" Clint raised his other eyebrow.

"Not sure I wanna know how you know that."

"I spent _how_ many years listening to her complain about Andrew's gift selections?"

"Fair enough; now … if we could put her bounty to good use?"

Phil answered Clint by shoving him back against the bookcase and attacking his belt buckle.

“Does the robot hand really have a laser finger?” Clint asked in between kisses, struggling with Phil’s buttons.

“Nope,” Phil pulled away for a moment, tugging Clint’s t-shirt over his head. “It has a vibrator finger.”

* * * *

_50 minutes later …_

Fitz scuttled into the lounge and made a beeline for Mack, burrowing into his side as though trying to disappear under his skin. He whimpered pitifully until Mack slung an enormous arm around his shoulders to hold him close.  Daisy and Simmons followed more slowly, trying very hard to look casual and failing miserably.  There was a flush high on Jemma's cheeks, and her eyes were slightly glazed over; Daisy guided her gently by the elbow, nose scrunched up in mild disgust.

May smirked, but refrained from commenting until Simmons was seated and no longer in danger of walking into a wall (they’d had a couple of close calls on the stairs). Daisy perched herself on the arm of Simmons’ chair, and Simmons tipped over, resting her head and arms on Daisy’s lap.

“You went upstairs, didn’t you?” May’s question as she sipped her beer was really more of a statement; she obviously already knew the answer.

Bobbi blinked in surprise as Mack and Trip winced and Hunter choked, spitting beer across the room. May thwacked him on the back.

"Oh, man, no.  No, no, no, no.  Please tell me you did not."  Fitz scrunched his eyes closed even tighter, and the whimpering started again; Mack patted his head soothingly.  "Turbo, no.  That was a terrible idea; almost as bad as accidentally opening the damn box."

"We were just concerned!" Simmons blurted out, and then her flushed deepened as May raised an eyebrow.  "Coulson and Agent Barton had been up there for awhile, and Agent Barton had been _so_ angry, and we thought….”

“You thought that there might be a dead body or two up there, and instead you saw some bodies of an entirely different sort,” Bobbi guessed.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Daisy nudged Simmons back into a semi-upright position before getting up to rummage in a cabinet above the sink.

“No surprise there; Clint’s been absolutely _gone_ on Phil for years, the feeling was definitely mutual, and the only ones unaware of that were the two idiots upstairs. There were two ways for this to end, and I guess they chose the smart one,” Bobbi said musingly.

“Yes, they seem to have … worked out their disagreements quite nicely,” Simmons murmured as Fitz moaned unhappily.   Hunter wordlessly offered Fitz his beer; Daisy shook her head as she plunked a handful of shot glasses and a bottle of vodka down on the coffee table.

“You’ve got the right idea, but I don’t think your fancy microbrew’ll be strong enough. Fitz needs the _real_ brain bleach.” Hunter recoiled as the implications of _that_ sank in.

“Good lord, how much did you see?”

Simmons just smiled dreamily as Fitz downed his first shot with a speed and aplomb that would have impressed even the Black Widow. Daisy immediately poured him another.

“By the way Fitz: the next time Coulson asks you to do upgrades on the hand … you might wanna run it through the autoclave first.”

Fitz glared daggers at May and made a grab for the bottle; Daisy only barely held him off.

* * * * _  
_

_Many, MANY shots of vodka later…_

[  _…Goering has two but VERY small…_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hitler_Has_Only_Got_One_Ball)

“That’s not even how you pronounce Goebbels!”

“Yeah, but it’s funnier this way. Don’t overthink it. Shhhhh….”

[… _Intestines were a-dangling from his paratrooper suit …_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWgsdexkv18)

“Ick. Gross.”

“That is both disgusting and horribly morbid.”

“Where the _hell_ did you pick this song up, Trip?”

“Blame Grandpa Gabe; the Howlies apparently spent a little too much time with Easy Company for their own good!"

_[…did you see him hitting on the queen, though he’s just nine and she’s fourteen … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEcjgJSqSRU) _

“Somebody wanna tell me why we’re singing the bastardized Weird Al version?”

“It was a phase, okay?”

_[… That’s the lovely tin whistle that me mother sent to me…](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5gydvllKdM) _

“Does anybody even _know_ the last two verses of this song?”

“Oh, god, why’d you get ‘em started?”

[… _but a baby boy with his whiskers on, sure, I never saw before!_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Drunken_Nights#Nights_6.E2.80.937)

“No, it’s a rolling pin!”

“I am TELLING you, it is a CANDLE!”

Mack and Daisy clapped hands over Fitz and Simmons’ mouths respectively, putting an end to the argument. The muscle in May’s cheek stopped jumping.

“Who wants pizza?” Hunter asked brightly. Bobbi threw a poker chip at him, and it bounced off his forehead.

“Papa John’s does not deliver underground, Lance.”

“Well, it’s all we need to make the flashback to my twenties complete.”

That’s when the proximity alarm sounded, and the very disgruntled desk sergeant came on the intercom to let them know the hangar doors were being externally opened … _again_.

 * * * *

 By the time the team managed to pull themselves upright and make their way to the main hangar (some of them needed more help than others, _Fitz_ ), the StarkJet and the Quinjet were engaged in some weird _High Noon_ -esque standoff over which one got to land first, bobbing and weaving at each other before backing away again. Iron Man … had no such hesitations.

“All right, where the _fuck_ is Agent Dead Man Walking?” Tony Stark demanded, flipping back his faceplate even as he hovered in midair.

“He’s busy,” May said calmly, even as Fury’s plane ceded to the Avengers’ and the two jets landed, one after another, gangplanks descending almost simultaneously.

Captain America was the first out, wearing the solid blue stealth suit and the shield slung on his back. Barnes was two steps behind him, in his Winter Soldier tac gear, solid black from head-to-toe except for the shiny silver of his left arm, and it made for a _terrifying_ sight. At least he’d left off the mask and goggles, and pulled his hair off his face … although that almost made it worse.

Pepper Potts had exchanged her cut-offs and ratty t-shirt (probably stolen from Stark) for one of her more imposing suits, the ones she wore when going to war against rival CEOS … or Congress. Romanov also had on her stealth suit, and was already powering up her Widow’s Bites; Wilson was strapped into his Falcon-jet-pack … thing, and had Clint’s bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. Wanda Maximoff was still wearing ordinary clothing, as was the Vision, but then again, neither of them _needed_ special outfits to be dangerous. Once his comrades were on the ground, Stark landed, and you could hear the whine of his repulsors powering up.

In short, the Avengers and associates were armed for _bear.  
_

So was Nick Fury, for that matter; the Director Emeritus was in full-on “I am tired of motherfucking HYDRA in my motherfucking helicarriers" mode, complete with swishy leather coat and intimidating scowl.

Of course, as soon as Fury’s boots hit the concrete, Stark turned all of his attention and righteous anger towards _him_ , and almost immediately, the two of them were going at it, voices echoing around the hangar.

"...always knew you were a lying liar who lies, Fury, but this just..."

"... had my reasons, and believe it or not, I am not accountable to ..."

"...kept it a secret for _four goddamn years_!  Rallying point or not, that was ..."

"NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU, STARK!" Fury _roared_ , a sheer wall of noise that silenced everyone within earshot.

Stark (being Stark) opened his mouth, one finger raised to continue. Before he could, however, he was interrupted by a loud _pop,_ and then a fizzly sort of _hiss_ ; everything tasted blue for a second, and a ball of light appeared to hover in midair without any discernible source. It quickly dissolved and spread into a shimmering, translucent oval: a portal, sparkling about the edges.

Grinning broadly, Buffy Summers stepped through, and waved to an unfamiliar redhead on the other side who closed the hole in space behind her with a swift chopping gesture.

"You ... you ... we left back at Stark Tower for a _reason_ , Summers!" Stark spluttered; he absolutely hated it when she broke the known laws of physics. (The first time she staked a vampire in front of him and it dissolved into dust before his eyes, Buffy had sworn that could hear his brain shattering into teeny tiny pieces, _plink plink plink_ ).

Buffy shrugged.

"Have witch, will travel." Stark could only snarl wordlessly; Rogers cleared his throat.

“If we could return to the matter at hand without all the unnecessary drama,” Barnes choked on air for a moment, temporarily ruining his air of impassivity, “we have a few matters to … discuss with Agent Coulson.”

“And if you could point us towards out missing archer, that would help,” Romanov added with an unnerving smile that barely met the definition as such: sure, her lips curved upwards, but no other muscles in her face moved at all.

May smiled back serenely; none of the other SHIELD agents could meet anyone’s eyes. There was a lot of throat clearing and boot shuffling (Fitz whimpered some more until Mack shushed him) before Hunter bit the bullet and said what everyone else was thinking.

“Well, they’re both upstairs in the Director’s office, getting things … sorted out between them, but I really wouldn’t go up there just yet. If I were you, I’d wait until they come down by themselves.”

Stark (being Stark) ignored this helpful bit of advice and stepped out of his suit. Leaving it behind as a sentry, arms raised in the repulsor attack position, he made a beeline for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, yelling “AGENT PANTS ON FIRE!” the whole way.

May lifted one hand, and silently begins counting down on her fingers. Fitz groaned, burying his face in Mack’s shoulder; Daisy and Jemma started giggling.

_5 … 4 … 3… 2… 1…_

And then Stark’s muffled shouting morphed into an angry pterodactyl shriek of disgust, followed by the unmistakable sound off someone tumbling headfirst down a flight of stairs.

“ARRGHHHH!!!! NAKED AGENT! NAKED BARTON! DOING NAKED THINGS!”

Rogers’ face did a complicated twisty thing, a sort of _I’m not sure what’s going on right now and I probably don’t actually want to know_ expression. Bucky patted him on the shoulder, mouthing _I’ll explain later_. The rest of the Avengers crew just looked … well, stunned was the closest approximation. Pepper hurried off to make sure that Tony wasn’t _too_ badly hurt, followed by Wilson as team medic.

Fury just smirked, and Romanov unbent enough to smirk back.

“Well, it’s about damn time.”

Hunter shrugged, and handed his beer to Buffy, who looked like she needed it.

“I _did_ try to warn him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Bucky had to fend off a very drunk Fitz who is cooing over the arm, while Steve deals with Simmons who wants to find out what makes super-soldiers tick. 
> 
> Sam and Fury and raise a glass to being 100% DONE with these motherfuckers.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come tumble with me!](http://oft-goes-awry.tumblr.com/)


End file.
